


Sensational Literature

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Porn, Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 14:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15003167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: I bought the literature in Holywell Street. I knew what it was, of course; I wasn’t there by mistake. There were pamphlets and photographs on the tables, books of all sorts, albums of lewd drawings, and folders full of loose pages. I moved slowly along behind my quarry, thumbing my way through stacks of books with suggestive titles likeThe Barrow Boy and the Banker,The Power of Mesmerism: A Highly Erotic Narrative,andThe Amatory Experiences of a Surgeon.





	Sensational Literature

**Author's Note:**

> If you were not fortunate enough to sign up for _The Sherlockian Observer_ 's yearlong serial publication, here is my contribution to "The Landlady’s Corner" in the final issue. Some back issues [are available here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/789078), and more information [can be found here.](http://sherlocksundaysummerserial.tumblr.com/thesherlockianobserver) Enjoy!

I bought the literature in Holywell Street. I knew what it was, of course; I wasn’t there by _mistake. I had been following a gentleman associated with a bit of fraud I’d been hired to investigate; his long, apparently aimless amble down the Strand had diverted somewhat unexpectedly into the side-street in question. It was not a place most people went accidentally, its reputation quite well known, so I perked up a bit. _Finally,_ I thought, _an interesting development.__

__

I had to stay close to my man. On a street known for peddling perversions, I didn’t want to loiter and give the impression I was a policeman, so I began perusing the boxes that stood outside the shops while keeping one eye on my quarry.

__

There were pamphlets and photographs on the tables, books of all sorts, albums of lewd drawings, and folders full of loose pages. I moved slowly along behind my quarry, thumbing my way through stacks of books with suggestive titles like _The Barrow Boy and the Banker,_ _The Power of Mesmerism: A Highly Erotic Narrative,_ and _The Amatory Experiences of a Surgeon_. I hesitated over that one, wondering if Watson would find it amusing.

__

We passed the aromatic entrance to Half Moon Passage that would have taken us back to the Strand, and then my quarry vacillated on the pavement. I stopped too, hanging back as he peered into a window. If he were a particularly suspicious or wary type, he might catch sight of me in the reflection. I made sure he would not, and picked a thin volume up off a table. I began to look through it, when the shop boy came out and said, “Tuppence for the books upon the table, sir.”

__

“Oh, yes,” said I, “I was only looking.”

__

“Sorry sir, no only looking allowed. You can buy it or you can move along.”

__

I couldn’t move along, so I bought it. I stood a little way away from the shop, smoking innocently, while I watched my gentleman go inside the shop he’d been lingering at. He didn’t come out again, so I decided he was known here and would have to look into it further. I noted the name and number of the shop and turned for home.

__

I ought to have thrown the books away, but I couldn’t bear the idea of Mrs Hudson finding them in the rubbish. I could have burned them, but I wasn’t ashamed of them. I hadn’t bought them for myself anyway. Back at Baker Street, they sat on the corner of my desk for an hour while I worked on something else. I turned them face-down when Mrs H came up to bring me a telegram.

__

It was from Watson; he had run into an old friend from medical school and they had decided to stop and have a drink together. He suggested we meet for dinner later, and told me where he would be. Mrs Hudson hadn’t left the room yet by the time I’d read it, so I told her not to expect us to eat that evening.

__

“Very good,” said she, and departed.

__

I put the telegram aside and caught sight of the books once more.

__

Well, thought I, if he were going to be gone all afternoon….

__

I picked up the top volume and opened it. The frontispiece was a drawing of a young lady with her bosom exposed and her skirts drawn up to show her thighs and cunny. She was holding a switch in her hand, and was in the middle of beating the buttocks of a curly-haired man bent over a chair. He was in an apparent ecstasy of agony, for his prick was long and stiff from the beating.

__

I knew what I was getting into, that was certain.

__

I began reading in a desultory fashion: for the story, of course. I wondered how salacious a book could get if it were sitting on a table out front and not tucked away in secret behind the counter. 

__

It began with a disclaimer from the narrator that this story was entirely true and not in the slightest bit made up: it had all come from his own experience as a man of the world. It was only natural, he claimed, to be lusty and red-blooded in this fashion, and he only wished to share with a discerning reader what a gentleman of a certain adventurous type might experience. _How very generous_ , I thought, turning the pages.

__

By the third page the exposition was over, and the narrator was wrist-deep in a virginal young ward of his uncle’s keeping. I doubted he could get that deep into someone so inexperienced, but the unreality of the scene did not deter me from continuing to read. The virgin was enjoying herself very much, and the narrator took great pleasure in her cries and regular gushing.

__

Let me say now that the sexual appetites of women have never been very interesting to me, but I could appreciate the enthusiasm.

__

I loosened my tie. The room felt too warm.

__

The narrator and the ward moved on from manual stimulation to oral, and had begun to gamahuche each other in an ambitious-sounding _soixante-neuf_. With more focus on the narrator and his cock, I couldn’t help but picture my own and the gentle, generous mouth of my good Doctor. He was warm and sweet and always took his time.

__

My hand not holding the book had drifted, and now lay on my thigh. My pulse throbbed between my legs, and as I read I found myself rubbing my thumb up and down along the seam of my trousers. It pressed the fabric of my trousers and drawers against the swelling head of my prick.

__

I got up from my desk and closed the sitting room door. I was unlikely to be interrupted; a client would ring, and I would hear my landlady on the stair. My cock was heavy between my legs, and I could tell I was blushing: alone in my own sitting home. Ridiculous. I took the book with me to the settee and sank down with my legs apart, pressing my palm to my groin. I was half-hard and quickly growing harder.

__

The scenes in the book went from one outrageous fuck to the next, without much of a break, but that was rather the point. Once the narrator had done with the ward, he moved right on into an encounter with an older man at a Turkish bath. I was certain I had visited the very same bath, and with Watson no less, so it was even easier to picture the two of us. I squeezed my prick through my trousers, kneading the flesh as it stiffened, my eyes fixed to the page. The scene had an edge of danger to it, since the narrator was in the public bath, but it was clear they wouldn’t be interrupted. The narrator allowed the older man to penetrate him, and the image of them standing in an alcove rutting, the narrator singing the praises of the long prick that fucked him, was what made me open my trousers.

__

My cock sprang up stiff and eager in my hand, and I stroked it slowly as I read; rather, I held my hand almost still and pushed my hips up into my grip, as if I were the one fucking the narrator. Or Watson. I wasn’t choosy in my fantasy. 

__

The narrator and the older man finished quickly, their orgasms improbably simultaneous and almost alarmingly copious, but I was disappointed rather than perturbed. I wished the scenes would last a little longer so that I could catch up. I reread the lines about the alcove-fucking again, up to and including the climaxes, and my cock surged.

__

The following scene took place between the narrator and the ward again, only now the ward had a nubile female friend, and the two of them were fondling each other while he watched. I skimmed it, interested in the sapphic content for its similarity to my own relationship, but moved quickly past it, eager for the man from the baths to make a return appearance.

__

He didn’t, but the narrator and an unnamed school friend fell in with one another, and there was a scene of them kissing and reminiscing about their days in the dorms together. They began to fuck Oxford style, with the narrator’s cock pushed between his friend’s thighs, and my arousal spiked again. I pushed my hand into my drawers to tug at my bollocks, leaving my cock standing untouched. It twitched, heavy and stiff and aching to be stroked. The narrator reached around his friend and began to fondle his prick, telling him how much he liked the feeling of in in his hand, and I found myself biting my lip to keep from making a sound.

__

I thought this scene would move along as quickly as the others, but the boys decided the Oxford fashion wasn’t satisfying and frig each other instead, face to face. There was a great deal of description of their long staffs rubbing together; I returned my attention to my cock, circling the head with my fingers and smearing the fluid around. I jerked myself quickly as the narrator and his friend kissed and masturbated one another, suddenly certain that I could finish with them. I was close, my cock growing even harder in my hand, the tip rosy and gleaming.

__

I barely heard the door downstairs close, but the sound of feet coming up the stairs registered. By the weight and pattern of the tread I knew it was Watson. I threw the book onto the table and covered it with a newspaper, and then stuffed my rigid, swollen prick into my trousers and buttoned them. It tented my fly obscenely, so I grabbed a pillow and was just covering my lap with it when the sitting room door opened.

__

“John!” I said. I was breathless, and I knew my face was red. “You’re back!”

__

“I meant to stay out until dinner,” said he, taking off his coat and hanging it up, “but the waiter at Duncan’s spilled a coffee on me and I’ve come home to change my shirt.”

__

“Oh, what a shame,” I said. My prick was throbbing, and the pressure of the pillow on it was not helping me calm down. In fact, I was pressing it more firmly against my lap, sending little shocks of pleasure down my thighs. Watson was unfastening his collar and buttons, intending to take his shirt off right there in the sitting room.

__

“Are you all right?” he asked, stopping suddenly. I’d made a noise.

__

“I’m fine,” I said. It even _sounded_ like a lie.

__

Watson looked at me again, taking in the blush, the pillow, my loosened tie. He narrowed his eyes, coming around the settee to get a better look, and bumped the newspaper with his knee. It fell to the floor, revealing my book.

__

“Oh,” said he, “is that so?”

__

“I followed Timpson into Holywell Street,” I said, “and I had to buy it to divert his suspicion.”

__

Watson had started to grin. “I’m sure you did,” he said, sitting down beside me. “And I imagine you had to read it, too, to make sure he hadn’t followed you back.” He took hold of the pillow and yanked it out of my hands, revealing my erection. He looked up at my face, eyebrows raised, and asked in a low voice, “How close were you?”

__

“So close,” I breathed. “I was about– they were just–”

__

“Forgive my interruption,” he said, leaning back and spreading his arms along the back of the settee. “Please, continue as if I weren’t here.”

__

“John,” I whined.

__

“No, really, I insist.” His grin was wolflike. He reached over and unfastened the top button on my trousers, brushing his hand deliberately along my prick.

__

“Fine,” I gasped, unbuttoning my fly again and exposing my prick. I took it in hand and groaned as a fresh gush of clear fluid spilled over my fingers. Watson watched as I began to stroke myself, and then reached for the book.

__

“Where were you?”

__

“Er,” I said, arching my hips into my hand.

__

“Nevermind, you nearly cracked the spine right here,” he said, and then he began to read it aloud.

__

I bit down on the knuckle of my first finger as I pulled at my cock, his low, steady voice washing over me. He read slowly and deliberately, glancing at my face and my working hand for feedback. I closed my eyes, picturing the boys vividly as they stroked one another. I circled the head of my prick with my fingers and rubbed it fast and hard as the narrator and his friend worked themselves up to the peak. Watson’s hand found my thigh, and then slipped between my legs to squeeze my bollocks. Surprised pleasure arced through me and I cried out as I spurted, my thighs flexing, my shirt ruined.

__

Watson finished the scene and closed the book. I heard him put it down on the table and then the rustle of the pillows as he shifted on the settee. When I opened my eyes, he was smiling at me.

__

“Did you still want to go to dinner?” he asked, innocent as a lamb. His cock was a half-hard ridge in his trousers.

__

“Yes,” I said, “but I’ll have to change my shirt.”

__


End file.
